


je suis en tete-a-tete avec un ange

by ellispage21



Category: Les Miserables
Genre: Rejection, SPOILER: mental illness, Unrequited love (kinda), mentions of suicide.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-22
Updated: 2018-09-22
Packaged: 2019-07-15 15:45:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16066274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ellispage21/pseuds/ellispage21
Summary: you're sad and you're pathetic and you're worthless and you're grantaire.





	je suis en tete-a-tete avec un ange

You were friends, you guess, because three years is too long to not be friends. And sometimes you got drunk together and talked about fake-deep things, like if stars have feelings, or what water is actually made of. But you weren’t really friends. Your friendship existed solely on the surface, it had no depth. Around other people, he wouldn’t look at you. He would turn so quickly you’d be given whiplash as soon as someone he liked more was around. And he liked everyone more than he liked you. 

 

You were never going to be swept up like in the stories, it was something that wouldn’t work; you spent too many nights crying over his harsh words for it to be a fairy-tale. You knew better, you know better. You tell yourself you could do better than him. But you fell in love like it would be forever. It’s one thing to get your heart broken, but did you have to make yourself look so stupid as it happened?

 

You still love him but instead of replying to your text messages, he goes to sleep and pretends he doesn’t see them. You still love him but his hair smells like a new conditioner and your hands would never recognise it. He doesn’t love you. He never will. 

 

You want to ask him about his essay. He stayed up every night writing it, and everyone knew. Today he got his grade back. “Hey,” you say. Your hands are in your pockets and the sky is grey and he loves someone that isn’t you. He keeps his eyes on the sky, watching the storm out of the window. “Hey,” you say again. He turns to look at you. You look away first. You forgot what you were going to say. “Hello,” he says. He smiles like he knows. But he doesn’t. “It doesn’t matter.” You mumble. 

 

You’re sitting by the ocean, pretending you’re not cold. She says you will be happier without him. You shrug and don’t take the cigarette from her hand. She says that he will never write you poetry, or paint you pictures, or write you a song. You sigh and lean back, “who cares?” The sky is growing darker. You say, “let’s get drunk.” She is looking at you like she is trying to say something bigger than her body, but she can’t because there are no words that will fit the meaning. “You care,” she says, “you care about poetry, and paintings, and songs.” And you do, because although you pretend to be a badass, you’re a romantic at heart, and you love laughing, and you’re soft and good all the way through. You look at her, and for a second, it’s stagnant and awful and oppressive. “Yep,” you say, “you’re right.” She laughs and stands up, “let’s just get drunk.”

 

You knew it would never work. There was something about you two that just never clicked. A level of discomfort you couldn’t overcome. You are walking along the vegetable aisle in the supermarket and you see him at the other end. You continue walking until suddenly you’re in your car and you cry and cry and cry. 

 

He introduces you to someone as his friend. They smile and offer you their hand. You don’t take it. You want to scream. 

 

You watch a box set, you listen to music, you read a long book, you clean your room. Sometimes all at the same time. It is never enough to shake him from your head.

 

You’re alone in your bedroom. He’s there with you. He’s always there with you.

 

You try to delete your memories of him, hoping he won’t haunt you in the mornings, but he does. He does. Nobody likes you when you’re heartbroken. She doesn’t come around much anymore. 

 

He doesn’t owe you anything. Every smile, word, glance is a gift. He doesn’t owe you any kindness. You’re invisible to him. That’s just the way it is.

 

You wonder what it feels like to wake up knowing you’re in love with someone who loves you too.

 

You haven’t slept in thirty-nine hours. You are in danger (you think). You can taste your own bad intent. You deserved every evil, miserable, wretched thing that has ever happened to you. Every day is the same, the weeks all blend together. You don’t know what date it is, and you don’t know what you’re doing with your life. You’re so sad.

 

Why can’t you do what you’re supposed to do? Why can’t you be who you’re supposed to be?

 

She doesn’t come around at all now.

 

You’ve been in bed for over a week. You don’t remember owning a toothbrush anymore. You get high and bleed and drink and bleed some more. You’ve always liked routine.

 

When did your hair start to fall out?

 

He’s probably forgotten you by now. It’s been two months since the last meeting. Why can’t you forget him too?

 

You have run out of alcohol. Your shoes are dusty, but you pull them on. You can’t remember how to tie your shoelaces, so you don’t. You’ve lost your door key.

 

The lights in the shop are too bright and everything is too loud compared to the silence you’ve been enveloped in for so long. You want to go home.

 

Someone behind you is saying something. You don’t recognise the word, but you recognise your voice. You don’t want to turn. He steps in front of you, wide-eyed. You curse him.  
You realise the word he was saying was your name. He is still talking but you don’t have the energy to listen. You leave the supermarket and walk half a mile the wrong way.

 

You don’t know what time it is when you get home, your phone died months ago, and your wrists are too thin for your watch to stay on. She is sitting in your bedroom, arm in a cast. She explains that she texted you to let you know, but it never delivered. You can see signatures up to her elbow. She tells you that she’s been going to the meetings. That they’re worried about him. “All of us,” she emphasises, but you’re too tired. You lie down in bed fully dressed and she asks when the last time you ate was. You pretend to be asleep.

 

When you wake up, it’s still dark outside. There are people in your room picking up your clothes. You don’t know whether they’re burglars or murderers. You decide you don’t care either way.

 

They’re your friends, the ones from before, and they’re taking you away. “Somewhere safe,” one of them says. You feel like the atmosphere is lighting you on fire very slowly.

 

You’re not in the mood to be a person today, so you lay on the sofa in someone’s living room and watch as everyone else exists around you. You think maybe your soul needs ironing, then you’ll be good. You’ll brush your hair and wash your clothes. You’ll say important things, and maybe he will listen.

 

You feel like the whole world fell in love and forgot about you.

 

Nobody loves you and nobody ever will.

 

Somebody has been putting protein powder and crushed vitamins in your juice. You’ve gained almost half a stone. Your clothes aren’t as baggy anymore. You don’t know how you feel.

 

The boy with hair like yours tells you that someone special is coming today. You hope it’s her.

 

It’s not her. You want to break your nose. You want someone to beat you up. You want to punch something so hard that every bone in your hand shatters. You want drugs.

 

He sits in front of you, his coat damp. It must be raining outside. You’ve forgotten what water feels like on your skin. You don’t miss it.

 

Neither of you speak because there is nothing to say. You can see that he has been crying. You hope he is alright, but you won’t ask. He probably wouldn’t tell you anyway.

 

He doesn’t look at you. You know it’s because you’re so disgusting. His fingers are drumming on the folder in his lap and there is rainwater dripping from his hair. You wish you had the energy to admire him.

 

“I’m sorry,” he says at last, and you find yourself frowning. “I knew it was out of the question, and when you didn’t reply I got the message. I did.” You say nothing. He leaves, but you don’t watch him go.

 

That night you ask the boy with glasses for your phone. He hasn’t heard your voice in months. You have. Yours is the voice screaming at you from inside your head. He explains he will need to charge it. You are too tired to protest and fall asleep sitting up.

 

The same boy wakes you up a while later, you don’t know when (your wrists are still too thin for a watch) and hands you your phone. It’s cold and unwanted, like you. It takes four separate attempts to enter the passcode correctly, and then it explodes in your hands. You don’t understand.

 

Over two hundred text messages, eighty-one missed calls. You are confused. This is not your phone. It can’t be. You find the text she sent, the one about her broken arm. There are some from your little sister. The family dog died. You are not sad. 

 

There are fifteen messages from an unknown number. You don’t know if you are able to read it. You’ve forgotten what words look like. 

 

We need to talk. Please text me when you receive this.

Hi, did you get my message?

Meeting postponed until tomorrow – Same place, same time.

Sorry if it was inappropriate to text you, I got your number from the group chat. This is Enjolras in case you didn’t have my number saved.

Hey. Meeting tonight on free contraceptives for all. Same place, same time.

Turning your read receipts off is immature. At least have the decency to reply. This is getting tiresome.

Youu knwo wat Ccourfeyrac was RIGht abti yu..,, U Hate you why uu don’t reply me. 

Fuckcydou

I haetyou 

I know you never reply, but I’d like to apologise for the messages sent last night. I was rather inebriated and I didn’t mean what was said. Sorry again.

Meeting tonight on housing and homelessness. Same place, same time.

You’ve missed 9 meetings, just checking to see if everything’s ok? You don’t have to respond, but maybe come to the next one?

Meeting tonight on tuition fees. Same place, 7pm (there’s an event apparently.)

Éponine said you’re in bad shape. I hope you’re ok. Text me back when you can, I need to speak with you.

I love you.

 

You stare at your phone and don’t know how to breathe. Your fingers shake as you press call. You don’t know what you’re going to say.

 

“Hello?” He says, you can hear the confusion in his voice. “I love you,” you say. You hang up before he can respond.

 

The boy with hair like yours tells you that there’s a visitor on the way. You know who it is. You ask him for some help, and he walks you to the shower. You use every product in the bathroom, and your shower takes forty-six minutes. Your wrists are still too thin, but you time it on your phone. Your phone. Your phone.

 

His clothes are too big, the boy with hair like yours, but you thank him, and he smiles. He tells you he missed your voice. You tell him you missed it too. He asks if you are better and you tell him you are not. You will not be better for a long time. He nods as though he understands. You know he doesn’t. You’re glad.

 

“Hello.” He says. You are not lying on the sofa. You are greeting him at the door. “You’ve brushed your hair.” You agree, because you have. The boy with glasses hugs him and you can’t feel your arms. You tell yourself you’re alright. You have to be alright. It’s happening.

 

The boy with glasses leaves as you sit down in the armchair facing the TV. He sits opposite you on the sofa. You see him pretend not to notice the indent of your body in the leather. He doesn’t look at you. He never does. You act like you don’t care.

 

You tell him you love him. He doesn’t say anything to you, so you keep going. You tell him you love him over and over and over and over and over. You tell him until you can’t tell him anymore. He doesn’t look at you. You act like you don’t care.

 

He tells you he can’t be with you. It would be damaging. For him, for the cause. He shuffles his feet and says, “and for you.” You tell him you don’t care. You’re damaged enough as it is. He nearly looks at you, but he doesn’t. You act like you don’t care.

 

“I think it’s better if you don’t come to the meetings again.” He says. You agree, not that you were going anyway. He starts to explain that he does have feelings for you, but that they’re unhealthy. He wants to fix you, but he can’t. You wouldn’t let him even if he tried. You want to tell him to try anyway, you want to beg, to plead with him to just give you one chance. He won’t. He looks at you, blue eyes rimmed with red. He tells you he’s going to leave. You act like you don’t care.

 

The door slams behind him and you climb out of the back window. You don’t have any shoes on. You walk until you can hear the waves crashing against the sharp rocks. You don’t have time to slow down, to take in the view. It’s getting darker. You gather and gather, collecting all that you can carry. Every stone you find. Your legs ache under the weight, and your belt strains against you. You act like you don’t care.

 

You check your phone one more time. You text her. She won’t read it in time. You don’t text him. You read the last text until your eyes blur and the words merge into one. Iloveyou. You think that maybe if there were no gaps, there would be no room for him to change his mind. You leave your phone on the sand.

 

The water is icy but you welcome it. You feel cleaner than you have in months. It’s difficult to walk with rocks in your pockets but you push yourself further out. Today he loves you. Tomorrow he won’t, tomorrow is when he didn’t tell you he loved you. Today he told you. You don’t want tomorrow. You don’t want any more tomorrows. You only want today. 

 

You trip on some driftwood and fall under a wave. Your eyes open and you can’t see anything. It’s peaceful and the voice in your head is quiet. You can hear your heartbeat quicken and fight against your instincts. If you were meant to be alive, he would love you tomorrow. But he won’t. You take a deep breath in. Your lungs burn like when you used to smoke. You remember smoking with her on the beach. You’re going to miss her. 

 

You start to choke and breathe in more water. You are very dizzy. Your trousers pull you down against the sand and you know you’re not too far out. Someone will find you. You almost feel sorry for them, but you don’t. A part of you hopes it’s him. Good, you think. Then he’ll understand. But it won’t be him. He couldn’t even look at you when you were living.

 

You’re aware of your eyes closing but there’s no sound anymore. You see him in front of you, white against black. You’re running through tar to reach him. He turns when you call his name, but even in death he doesn’t look at you. You laugh because you’re still pretending you don’t care. You take one more deep breath.

**Author's Note:**

> lol one day i'll finish something instead of starting 100000 other things.


End file.
